Chapter Three

Hope

My feet hit the concrete sidewalk as I put distance between the bar and me. With each click of my heels, I walk a step away from the altercation I just encountered. Who the fuck was that guy by the door, and why did he think I should go home with him? I’m so sick of men assuming, just because a woman is in a bar, that they’re easy. Then the guy sitting next to me intervened, which I didn’t need. I had to get out of there before they threw fists and called the cops.

I try to steer clear of any fights where the cops could be involved. My life is lived in a way that I avoid the police at all costs. I’m also very careful when I’m with a target. I try not to leave any evidence behind when I steal. Sure, I wear gloves, cover my face, or use false fingerprints; basically I do everything I can to ensure I don’t get caught. I think it’s time to pack up and move the fuck out of this city. That bar incident makes me nervous, and I’m not sure why.

My permanent home is three hours away, but I rent an apartment here to make things easier. Month by month, and no one knows. If I sleep with a guy who isn’t a target, we go back to his place or fuck in his car. I don’t need a lease or the worry of how I’m going to get out of it when I pack up and ship out. Sometimes I leave very quickly.

I haven’t been home in six months. Maybe it’s time to visit the house and check in on things. I never was able to sell the place where I was raised and where I saw my parents alive for the last time. But I don’t go there often. I can’t. It’s too hard. The memories flood my mind each time I open the door, and it’s more than I can bear. I do go once or twice a year, though. I have to make sure the place is still standing, and the yard is still being mowed by the people I pay.

Someone with heavy boots is following me, and I have one guess who it is. I need a fucking cab and to get off the street. I don’t want this guy chasing me.

“Hey!” he calls after me. I’d almost rather have the drunk guy pursuing me. At least then I’d be able to outrun him.

I don’t turn around. His speed picks up, as does mine, but I can’t move as fast in heels as he does in his boots. Then he’s behind me, his hand on my arm, attempting to stop me.

I shake him off and spin around. “Don’t touch me,” I seethe.

He immediately pulls his hand back. “Whoa. I was only trying to get your attention.”

“It didn’t occur to you that I don’t want to talk to you?”

“It did, but I had to make sure you’re okay.”

I turn back around and start walking down the sidewalk again. “I’m fine.”

He steps up beside me and keeps pace. “Let me at least make sure you get home okay.”

“I’m a big girl. I can get there on my own.”

“I’m very aware that you’re a big girl, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you walk home alone on these streets.”

“Do you have a savior complex?”

He chuckles. “Something like that.”

Glancing over at him, he smiles, and fuck me—those dimples. The streetlight shines down perfectly on us. I saw those dimples in the bar, but he’s closer now. Sexier. Don’t get me started on his scent, which drifts to me every time the breeze blows in my direction. A spicy, woodsy scent that’s all male. It’s taking everything in me not to turn to him and leap in his arms.

He has badass written all over him. When he was in the bar, I could make out tattoos on his upper arms. Arms that are muscular as hell. And the leather jacket he’s wearing right now, yeah, I’m in total lust. But then his actions contradict his appearance. Bad boys don’t go around being chivalrous and trying to save damsels in distress. Not that I’m a damsel.

So, what’s his deal? Is he a bad boy, or a pretend bad boy, who bought a leather coat and tries to rock the look? I can’t forget the tattoos. That shit’s permanent. Maybe he is a bad boy. Bad boys I can handle, it’s the good ones I need to avoid. The ones who, if they ever find out what I do, will have the cops on my ass in no time.

I stop, causing him to follow suit. Tentatively, I place my hand on his chest under his coat and lean in. “Do you have any plans for the rest of the night?” A bad boy will say no and fuck me senseless. A good boy will try and be polite at first and keep his hands to himself. In the end, though, his dick always wins out. At least I’ll be able to tell where this guy falls in a few seconds.

His hand lands on my hip as his eyes meet mine. “I don’t. What do you have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something that involves a lot less clothing.” I drag my hand down his chest, stopping at the waist of his jeans.

His eyes hood with lust. “Sounds good to me.” He takes my hand in his and starts walking us back to the bar.

“Wait, we’re going in the wrong direction. My apartment is the other way.” Fuck! Did I just say my apartment? Why the hell did I blurt that out? I don’t want him there. “Why don’t we go to your place?”

“Yours is closer, obviously. You’re able to walk there. Mine’s out in the country.” Shit. “And we can get to your apartment faster on my Harley.” My apartment or the country? I don’t like the idea of being trapped at some guy’s house I don’t know, with no way to get home. I guess my apartment it is. Now I really will need to get out of the city. One night, and tomorrow I’m packing my shit and hightailing it out of here.

At least I know he’s definitely a bad boy. He wants to fuck me, and he rides a motorcycle. All thoughts of my apartment flee as I think about being on the back of that Harley. God, I can’t wait to feel that bad boy vibrate between my legs. The motorcycle, that is.

We reach the parking lot of the bar and walk up to his ride. Oh my, is it fine. All black, brand new, and shiny. I skate my hand over the tank, down to the curve of the seat and the back fender, and end near the license plate. The drag pipes are matte black, blending in with the rest of the motorcycle.

“She’s beautiful,” I say in awe.

“You like Harleys?”

“Oh, yeah. I used to have one a while ago but didn’t have anyone to ride with, and it got lonely. I ended up selling it.”

I actually sold it when I was having a hard month. It was during one of my splurges, and I was able to unload it for almost as much as I paid for it. I did love riding it, though. But it was lonely. I would pass couples riding together. I wanted that but couldn’t have it. Not with the life I lead.

“That’s too bad. We could have ridden together.”

My eyes go wide, but I duck my head and smack the leather seat on the motorcycle. “Start it up. I’m ready to have some fun.” I’m not going to think about what it would have been like to ride next to him. Nope. It won’t do me any good.

He lifts his leg and swings it over the seat. Looking over his shoulder, he gives me a cocky grin. I straddle the seat behind him and reach my hands forward to hold on to his waist as he starts it up. The rumble of the engine, the throatiness of the pipes, it’s all amazing.

“What’s your name, darlin’?”

I cock an eyebrow at him calling me darlin’. “Ashlyn, and I’m not your darlin’.” He laughs and puts the Harley in gear. He pulls out onto the road with force, which causes me to tighten my grip on him. We stop at a light.

“Where do you live?” he asks loudly over the pipes. I give him directions, and we’re off again toward my apartment.

Halfway there, he takes my hand, which is resting on his waist, and pulls it to his stomach, pressing his palm against the back of my hand to hold me close to him. I can feel every ridge of his abdominal muscles, and yes, I’m stroking them up and down. We’re going to my apartment to fuck, after all. Maybe I’ll get things started now.

Using my right hand, I caress down his stomach to the waist of his jeans. Going farther south, I run my hand over the denim and find him getting hard beneath my palm. This isn’t only making him hot. I’m starting to squirm on the seat. I haven’t been thoroughly fucked in a few weeks and could use the release.

We reach my apartment in no time. It’s the second floor of a restored, brick row home. We both climb off the motorcycle, and I don’t get more than two feet before his arm is around my waist, pulling me in close, as he kisses me on the lips hard. I melt in to him. His kiss is full of passion and promise of what’s to come. But I’m not about to get down with him on the sidewalk.

We kiss and try to strip each other as we take the stairs. I fish for my keys and somehow end up unlocking the door without even looking. I bet I couldn’t do that again if I tried. We briefly break apart once we’re inside, him kicking the door shut behind us. Me dropping my purse and keys to the floor.

He pauses, eyes scanning my apartment, then flips on the light switch by the door. “This is where you live?” I nod. I thought that was fucking obvious. “Where’s all of your stuff?”

My apartment is sparse: couch, television, and nothing more in the living area. I need to be able to move on a moment’s notice, and I can’t do that if I collect shit and get attached at every place I temporarily take up residence. I rent furnished places. It’s easier to leave at the drop of a hat when you only have the basics to pack.

“I’m a minimalist,” I say and cross my arms.

“Minimalist? This is more like you’re broke and can barely afford to live here. Is that why you sold your Harley? You were broke?” Like I’m going to tell him the truth.

“No. I already told you why. This is just how I live.”

He turns and looks over my bare kitchen, with nothing on the counter but a microwave, then walks up the small hallway to the bathroom and bedroom. “You pay to live here?”

“What? Yes!”

“You never know. People squat in places that they don’t have rights to.”

“I can’t believe you just accused me of being a squatter. Would a squatter keep it this clean? Would a squatter have a fucking key to the apartment?”

“I apologize,” he says, as he makes his way back over to me. His eyes are raking me over from head to toe. Hunger building in them. I guess he forgot about my living situation when he remembered he was about to get laid.

His hands find my hips, and now I’ve forgotten about everything but how badly I want his lips on mine. “Ashlyn…”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to know my name?” No, not really. I don’t need a reason to become attached and a name will start that. Although, if I say that he’ll definitely think something’s up.

“Sure. I should know what name to call out during sex.”

He laughs. “Rowe.”

“Your name is Rowe?”

“Yes, it’s a family name.” Weird name, but whatever. Then again, Hope isn’t exactly some amazing name, but I’ll never reveal my true self to him.

I lift his shirt to find the hard planes of his stomach. Tattoos cover his chest and I want to lick every inch of him. “Less talking, more stripping,” I command.

“A woman who likes to get down to business. I like that.”

Reaching up, I pinch his lips shut. I don’t want to get to know him. I don’t want to like his personality or the deep timbre of his voice. And I certainly don’t want a friend. He’s not the type I can steal from. He’s too observant. Plus, he’s seeing me for who I really am. No fake hair or makeup covering my tattoos. No false nose or chin. Tonight I went out as me. Just Hope.

Wait, why would a bad boy give two shits what kind of apartment I live in? He should have had my clothes off by now and my back pressed against the wall with my legs around his waist.

Rowe’s lips press to the spot just below my ear, and my thoughts dissolve into nothing. All I can do now is feel. His tongue traces a path down to my shoulder as his hand pulls my shirt down so he can kiss along my skin. My fingers make quick work of the front of his jeans, and in our next breath, my hand is wrapped around his dick. He moans low, making me want to strip him and drop to my knees before him.

I can’t move, though. Not when he lifts my shirt over my head and pulls my bra down to suck my nipple into his mouth. Not when his other hand finds my clit and causes me to cry out. Nope, no more thoughts. Only sex with the delicious man before me.